Candle
by Mellia
Summary: Fleeing from a past he can barely remember, a former French assassin takes up residence halfway around the world from his sins. He becomes obsessed with the woman whom he unknowingly endangers.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I own nothing.

The song Erik recalls is Un Flambeau, Jeannette, Isabella. 'Do' is pronounced 'doh', and is the rough equivalent of 'hush'.

Candle ----------------------

Prolouge:

It was beneath the festering light of one of the darker pubs that the night slowly crawled toward a faraway morning. The car had been abandoned on the street, its parts left as targets for whatever denizens felt claim to strip them.

Erik leaned back in the far booth, head resting against the coarse wall as he watched the circle of flies swarm back and forth through the light, buzzing around the fixture as though it were a source of life.

A flash of dismembered recollection surfaced: Sitting silently as a child on the floor, hand extended and thin fingers uncurled. Eventually one of the many insects would land on his wrist, or farther along, and he would wait patiently until the fly found its way down into the upper part of his palm. He never knew what to do with them after he caught them, although the glow of success and odd sensation of the trapped fly buzzing within the prison of his fist had been rewards in and of themselves. He thought he could almost remember prying one apart, one day, but--

And the past faded away like water into porous rock. Erik let himself slump forward, idly tracing a finger through the puddle on the table below his drink. His time in the Middle East had instilled in him a wariness of chemical indulgences . . . but on occasion the old habits of self-medication called strongly.

It was Christmas Eve.

From the depths of the pub he could imagine mindless carolers, wandering to and fro through snowflakes as they invaded the valuable time of other, warmer people. Unbidden, a weathered scrap of song found its way to his lips.

"_Do. do. do_. . . ."

He pushed a finger through the damp spot, the wood grain dark and richer under his touch.

"_Do. do. do_. . . ."

He hated going to places such as this on holidays. Invariably sad patrons would turn out by the score, hoping to mend within a glass what they could not by themselves. Loud, bothersome, insufferable wretches . . . it almost made him wish he had not left the house.

Almost.

Absently, Erik played the end of a finger over the condensation on his glass, its wake leaving meaningless pools of collected moisture. A particularly voracious crowd entered through the gray door on the left, hailing with them a whirl of tiny snowflakes. He turned his head toward the wall. Perhaps if _he_ did not see _them_. . . .

The shadows passed away untempted by the masked man in the corner; he watched them find seats at the bar across the small room.

The monster struggled behind his eyes.

Abruptly, Erik stood. He donned his long coat, leaving his drink untasted as he quickly slid out from behind the small table and made his way into the crowd cloistered out of sight from the holiday. Several gave him scrutinizing looks; one or two rallied slightly at being shoved aside but froze upon catching sight of the man's face.

It was early yet. No one stepped up to challenge him as he wove his way to the door, and then out into the frozen evening.

Snow cascaded around him in a powdered downpour, brushing against his clothing and clinging where it landed. Erik glanced downward at the gathering blanket across his front, silently marveling a phenomenon he had not witnessed in uncountable years. The last time it had snowed, for him, he'd had his face pressed against a frosted window between a wooden barricade, staring through the glass at the transforming world.

He shook his head to clear the image of a whitewashed house, immaculate between a grove of little fruit trees.

He wished suddenly that he had not forsaken the drink.

Erik inhaled deeply, finding relief in the pain as cold air passed through his malformed nose and into his lungs. He was mildly surprised to find his car where he had left it, untampered with, although he checked beneath it and in the shadows for security's sake.

_They could have been waiting for the owner_.

The monster behind his eyes stirred, and Erik drew another long breath as adrenaline spiked through his veins. A final check confirmed that no thieves stood in wait, foolish and unaware of what violence fate would orchestrate for them.

Disappointment replaced his heightened senses, and as Erik turned the ignition the notion crossed his mind that he could always find prey elsewhere. There were always those who lurked in the night, behind alleys or--

_Let's not have a repeat of last year, shall we?_

Resolved to a long evening in the cramped interior of his home, Erik slowly turned into the glitter of sparse traffic.

_The entire world seems arrayed as one damn Christmas decoration!_ With the glimmer of red and green lights, the strings of glowing bulbs wound between branches of dormant trees, and the nauseating glass paintings on storefronts, Erik was grateful for the gentle, obscuring snowfall.

Violence resurfaced, and with it the urge to step sharply on the gas pedal.

_Too messy. And far too unpredictable_.

He tightened his grip on the wheel.

Up ahead the final traffic signal declared him nearly home, and as he eased into place next to the curb it was with the secondary urge to spend the night in the front seat of his car. The house loomed, foreboding.

Snow drifted down, slower than before but still present, and as it collected on the windshield the feeling of claustrophobia mounted.

Erik flung open the door and pushed himself out, breathing deeply. He forced himself not to hurry his pace to the gate, and only when it swung shut behind him did he feel his shoulders relax. He tilted his head back, trying to lose himself in the darkness and the chill.

The uneasy feeling would not leave. Erik strode briskly up the short path, digging into his pocket for the ring of keys. On impulse he glanced left, toward the neighboring house and its lights, to the wreath hung in colored illumination on the door. He turned away.

The smell of carpet greeted the enterance to his home. Erik hung his coat on the peg in the front hall, having shook the heavy fabric sufficiently beforehand, and dropped his keys into the black dish nearby. He made his way to the back patio, pulling aside the curtains and emerging silently despite little chance of discovery. Through the falling flakes his gaze turned upward to the second story of the neighboring house.

Her light was on. The thin, cream-colored drapes seemed to glow in the darkness, and his heart pounded as he imagined her somewhere on the other side. Moving about, maybe, in preparation for sleep. Brushing out her hair, changing into night clothes. . . . He lingered for a several minutes longer in hopes of a silhouette, and then, resigned, turned back into the gloom.

Wanting the impossible was a pain he had held dear for all of his life.

Erik firmly shut his curtains, against the possibility that she would open her own and happen to glance down and into his house. No need to disturb the poor girl. 


	2. Chapter 2

As usual, no claim and no gain.

Chapter 1:

----------------

February rain pounded the roof and great paneled windows, interspersed with unseasonal flurries of snow. Christine watched the precipitation slow, the droplets growing smaller and lighter as one more such flurry began. She idly tapped a rhythm on the counter beside the cash register, nails clicking and hardly audible over the commotion across the room.

"Why is _Starbucks_ busy?" Meg demanded. Her thin gloves were red from slicing tomatoes, and she wiped them absently on the front of her apron. It was the last task of the day; with the hours went the practiced cleanliness.

"Maybe people aren't hungry right now. Okay-- no, it's-- I don't know. We should have had a lunch rush twenty minutes ago." This was the unfortunate paradox of fast food workers: Either you had customers and therefore had to perform your monotonous job, or you had nothing to do and were bored.

"At least we're off in ten minutes." The clank of the slicer resumed. "Marilyn Manson."

"Michael J. Fox," Christine shot back, grinning. The celebrity name game was a new addition to the workplace, a welcome distraction in which the goal was to keep a link going between the letters of one star's last initial and the next one's first. Meg was now left to coming up with a name beginning with 'f'.

"Ooh, hot guy," she said, instead. Christine looked, craning to see over the shelf separating _The Burger Plaza_ from the adjoining café. Unsure as to whom Meg referred, she scanned the long line for a glimpse of a pretty face. Unfortunately from her angle, most of the crowd consisted of the backs of various heads. She didn't particularly feel like moving.

"How's Seth?" Meg asked.

"He's fine. A little irate, but he's got a test tomorrow in calculus."

"Yuck."

Christine smiled. Seth's major in computer programming heralded with it the requirement of higher mathematics-- and thus the complaint that videogame programmers should have a single, special math course. This way, obscure notions such as the Derivative would be taught as directly applicable to their career.

"Francis Ford Coppola."

"_Who_?"

"Famous director." Tomato juice spread slowly from the little metal machine, its manual handle thrusting the fat red fruits into a series of horizontal blades. On the other side, Meg's hand served as a block to keep the slices from sliding off the end of the platform. She layered them into a plastic container, one group at a time.

"Cher." Christine watched a number of people enter the double shop, then pass them on the way to the restrooms.

"Harrison Ford! Do you want help packing this afternoon?"

Christine grinned at her. "That'd be great. My dad offered a couple of times, but . . . well, it's my _dad_. I mean, it'd be okay if I were moving into a _dorm_, but, you know, this's kind of embarrassing,"

"What, moving in with someone?"

"Yeah." She studied a bit of fluff caught on the edge of one of her pieces of flare.

"I bet he's cool about it. If I tried to move in with someone my mom'd gut me alive."

"Oh." Christine took a deep breath. "Yeah, I guess he is." She paused. "Frank Sinatra."

------

Her father lived on the corner of Howard and 24th, a residential district of appallingly equal distance from the local shopping center, Safeway, and anywhere else of interest. Trees with barren branches stood bleak against the overcast sky, the promise of a green cathedral in summer months. Tended gardens sprouted from the earth around driveways and freshly mowed lawns in a cacophony of hyacinth, crocus, and plastic-like tulips.

Her father's car was absent as Christine unlocked the front door of the house and led her friend inside.

"Hel_lo_, Bosley!" Meg stooped to rub the little Shieba's head as he raced to greet them. "Can I take him out?"

Christine checked her watch. "Later. Did you _miss_ me?" Assured of love, the dog happily trotted after her as Christine showed Meg upstairs.

"This is my room--"

"Hence the boxes--" Christine looked at her. Meg smiled. Behind them, Bosley leapt up onto the rosy comforter and made himself at home on the pillow. "What first?"

"Um. Books?" She pulled apart the folds at the top of a box, and together they began transferring the contents of the humble shelf. Memorabilia from concerts and theatrical productions followed, rolled carefully or wrapped in newspaper. The computer was left where it was, folded shut and tucked into its carrying case on the desk. Christine opened her closet, surveying the massive amount of articles within.

Some two hours later the room began to resemble a state of emptiness, the only things left as they were consisting of what she had decided against taking, and of course the desk, the bed, and clothing for three more days.

"This is kind of exciting," she admitted.

" 'Kind of'?"

"All right; _very_ exciting." Blushing, she examined a stuffed pink dragon before gently placing it back on the bed. "My dad's promised to keep what I don't bring."

"Cool."

Christine's gaze trailed to the window, where a light drizzle had resumed and with it the rivulets on glass. Peering through this at the sound of an approaching car, she pushed shut her Sharpie pen. "He's home."

From the window, she saw her father open the trunk of the car and bend to collect whatever was inside. Christine hurried out to meet him, embarrassment and mild guilt about her upcoming move an encouragement to be as helpful as possible. They greeted each other and then, slipping her arms through several bags, she struggled back to the house with groceries. Mr. Daaé followed, similarly laden.

"Hi," Meg offered, Bosley at her heels with his leash.

"Hello, Meg. Thank you."

They returned for the last load as a second car turned into the quiet street, and then into the drive next door. Christine hastily averted her gaze, busying herself with gathering fallen apples. She glanced up as the driver of the other car carefully exited, moving to reposition a bag looking much like that for a photography camera.

"Good afternoon!" her father called. "Some weather we're having. Rain and snow and sun; how do you like Oregon?"

Their neighbor said nothing, and Christine internally winced. _If you have to try to talk to him, why about the_ weather

She quickly bundled the French bread, and carried this and the other bags inside. Her father had made it his personal goal in life to befriend their reclusive neighbor, a mission most probably inspired upon learning that the masked man shared a love for the violin. She pulled a grim smile as she passed Meg, who was standing with her back turned to the urinating dog.

"Is that him?" Meg indicated the neighbor.

"Yep." She balanced her load, and managed to open the door by pushing down the handle with her foot. Meg followed, and they put away the groceries before heading back upstairs. Christine's strange neighbor had appeared in conversation once in a long while, a result from the combination of his appearance and timing.

Her mother had lived in that house before he had.


	3. Chapter 3

I own nothing.

A/N: Thank you, those who took time to review my story! Updates will definitely come in some manner of frequency, since I not only worked out the plot in advance, but have no classes this summer. Cheers!

Chapter 3:

----------------

"Meg, wait!" Christine fed the seat belt strap back into its slot, then firmly closed the door.

"Hurry up!"

"I'm trying! Why are we running?"

"They could be sold out!"

"Of _what_?" Clutching her purse, Christine finally drew alongside her friend as they hurried across the crowded parking lot before the sprawling mall.

"The stuff you need for your new place!"

"A bookshelf, a lamp, and a rug?" Somehow she doubted that any store would run out of such common items. Meg gave her a wounded glance.

They breached the doors to TJ Maxx at a run, flying beneath the banners declaring a sale. "You go that way; I'll go this way," Meg ordered. "If anyone tries to take something you need, whack 'em in the shin." She dashed into the isle of ugly, fake plants.

Christine turned around slowly, spotted what looked to be a section of furniture, and headed in that direction. Her old bookcase was worn, and, more importantly, was pink and covered on one side by a unicorn and a fairy tale castle.

Just because Seth had_ seen_ it didn't mean he should have to _live_ with it.

She chewed the inside of her lower lip as she examined the selections. This wasn't Sears; there was quite a limited array to choose from, even if it was on sale. And there were no bookcases. Christine turned away to look for the next item on her list.

Behind a large lamp shaped like a pair of gigantic yellow swans, a rack of rugs hung folded in half with their copies in cases below. Christine browsed through them, idly wondering whether Seth would like a large image of Sponge Bob on his living room floor. He'd promised to buy the groceries since she was taking care of last-minute additions, a strategy she would have preferred done together but for Meg's insistence that the sales would not wait. Currently, she wondered how he was, and whether he'd found himself adequately prepared for his exam.

She checked her watch. Right about now, Seth would be morosely checking to see how many questions there were, and then how many he would need to pass in order to get an acceptable grade.

Smiling to herself, Christine heaved a tan-and-black checkered rug up and into her arms, glanced around, and went to grab a cart. She was examining the lamps when Meg returned with a cart of her own.

"Hey! What'd you find?"

Christine motioned at the rug,

"That's it?" Meg looked somewhat disappointed, and by glancing at the other woman's discoveries, Christine could see why. In the span of nearly ten minutes, Meg had acquired a wide variety of items encompassing everything from a wall clock to a vase with plastic flowers. The ensuing negotiations, and Christine's forfeit, were traditional.

"Right!" Meg clapped her hands together as they piled the stuff into the back of her Kia. "On to Sears, lunch, and JC Penny!"

"JC Penny?"

"Outfit for moving day!"

----------

They arrived at the new apartment late that afternoon, the back of the car full of various things one or the other had decided to buy. The designated parking space was empty; Seth had canceled meeting them for an unexpected dental rescheduelation. Meg helped Christine carry the bags into the living room, and took a deep breath.

"I hate new-apartment smell. You can't tell what the occupants are like." She was of the firm belief that the smell of someone's apartment indicated a good deal of that person's character. Christine agreed, but only to the point of such smells as cat piss, garbage, sour milk, or pot.

How could one determine someone's character if they smelled of, say, potpourri? Both her mother and Mrs. Kemple owned houses laced with this fragrance, although there were few other similarities between the society lady and the friendly, neo-hippie.

Christine blew a stray curl out of her face as she put away the new plastic table setting. Memories of a house and its stark, modernists' style came shuffling forward; she imagined a pair of disapproving eyes examining her purchases. _Plastic? Plastic? Oh, Christine, what did your father do to you?_

Scowling, she defiantly stacked the matching cups and shut the cabinet.

"Hey! Where do you want your gift?"

She started at Meg's voice. "What?"

"Your gift!"

Christine headed back into the living room, where Meg unfurled a small, tinfoil-wrapped box and an untrustworthy grin.

"What is it?"

"A housewarming present. You can't open it until the day you actually move in."

"Thank you." Christine took it, then marveled at the meager weight of the package. _What could it be? Tissues?_ She placed it carefully on the table.

A sudden smile overtook the moment of thought. "I can't believe this is going to be ours in two days." She twirled, arms outstretched, the future unfolding in a glaze of warm possibilities.

"Yep. All you've got left is the boxes in your old room, and that's it!"

"Yeah." She clapped her hands. "Let's go get the boxes!"

----------

Erik felt to assure himself that the mask and wig were both in place. He did not own a traditional mirror; adjustments to his appearance had to be made on the basis of touch or, failing that, a trip to the lower room with a flashlight. The way he dressed was highly important in preventing arrest or further exclusion-- both potential problems due to the unfortunate nature of his birth. If a second glance at his loathsome form assured people that he had plenty of money, they would be less likely to assume that he was a threat to their own.

The suit had be an uncomfortable acquisition. It was necessary, yes, but if not for the matter of presentation he would have simply chosen one from a rack and had done with it. As it was, he imagined the fact that he could not remember the fitting indicated a willingness to forget the experience. Probably the tailor would have wished to, as well.

Into the left pocket went a couple of heavily-stoppered, plated vials, the likes of which could not be broken accidentally by casual impact. A pair of small, self-alterations in his right shirtsleeve held two more of a different substance, and the one on his left a thin knife.

Erik picked up the shoes he had left to dry on a pad of newspaper, giving them one last examination for wet polish or areas that he had accidentally missed. Seeing neither, he slipped them on and quickly did up the laces.

Because he was only going to have a look at the development of the current site, Erik gladly chose to forego the use of his 'social' mask. He disliked it most; it was the one with the symbol of the Red Cross and a brief statement in small letters which marked him as a former patient of a local burn ward. Incorrect, yes, but that was hardly the point.

His telephone rang just as he reached for the doorknob.

Pausing, Erik contemplated simply abandoning the inopportune caller to an empty house, although curiosity vied for attention. His grip on the knob tightened. It was more than likely that whoever waited at the other end of the line could easily go on waiting until he returned.

Across the room on the far wall, the black machine picked up.

"_We are unavailable to take your call. Please leave a message at the beep. At the tone, please state your message. To leave a callback number--_"

"Allo?"

He had never been one to subdue curiosity.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Oh, dear. Seems that this site automatically makes it so that anonymous reviews aren't accepted, which isn't what I wanted. I fixed it, hopefully. . . .

And I'm also looking for a beta, if anybody's interested.

------------

"Good evening, Erik,"

"_Merde_." He curled a hand around the edge of the answering machine, deeply regretting having picked up.

The Daroga chuckled.

"What do you want? I am busy." Erik shifted the phone from one ear to the other, freeing his left hand.

"Busy, Erik?" When there was no reply, he continued. "And what are you doing this late?"

"That is none of your business."

"I see."

Annoyed, Erik tapped the ends of his fingers against the wall. He glanced at the doorway, then turned his back on it, trying to keep his patience. After a moment, when the other man said nothing more, he scowled. "Good-bye, Daroga."

"Erik--"

"I am busy." Realizing that he would be unable to escape without some offer of better explanation, Erik continued, "I am going to look at a site."

"Is that all?"

"Yes." He hesitated hanging up, weighing his options. It was nearly impossible to convince the older man to let him be, and even more so when the Daroga took it into his head that Erik was hiding something. Irritation mounting, he grit his teeth. "Was that it?"

There was silence on the other end before the faint voice asked, "Are you. . . . How is America?"

_And thank you for that irrelevant question_. The monster stirred. "It is . . . fine." Really, what did he want to hear? The Western United States had little history; its architecture was new and lined on either side of broad streets. The people had the habit of becoming immune rather than active, of staring or making a point of _not_ staring. at things which caught their interest. The trees were a beautiful change of scenery. In summation it was . . . acceptable, for the time being.

"Oh? Taking lots of pictures?"

"No." A very cold feeling trickled through his insides. He glanced at the objects on the piano bench, and tilted his head. "Why do you ask?"

The Daroga did not dignify that question with a response. Erik swallowed.

"I find that I am very tired of photography, Daroga. You do not have to keep your rope around my neck."

"I find the irony of that comment very amusing," the older man stated dryly.

"That was not my intent."

"I'm sure." He, too, seemed to be weighing what to say, and Erik found himself becoming more and more agitated as the seconds wore on. He glanced at the door again.

"If you do not mind, I have things to do."

There was a sigh of resignation. "All right, go. But Erik--"

He paused in the act of hanging up.

"--if I ever find that you've gotten yourself into more trouble, I will _not _help you a second time, do you understand me?"

"Yes, yes, Daroga, I understand." _Thank you for playing nanny_. _This is why you called, isn't it? To make sure that I am behaving myself_. Erik had no intention of breaking his promise.

"And Erik--"

He put the phone back to his ear, mouth stretched into a thin line.

"Did you get your tickets?"

The edges of his lips curled upward, slowly. _And now I understand_. "Why yes I did, Daroga. How thoughtful. You know that I have an interest in the classical music."

"Yes, I know." There was a lengthy pause, and Erik's smirk grew. _Ask. Go ahead. We both know you want to. _"Erik. . . ."

"Yes?" _And of course the innocence will not be believed_.

" . . . Why did you ask for _two_ tickets?"

Unexpectedly, the monster bared its teeth. "My dear Daroga! Whatever can you mean?" He tilted his head back, feeling the wallpaper brush against his wig. "Surely a being such as myself would never ask for more than one. Whomever would I find to accompany me?"

"Please don't play games with me, Trapdoor Lover." He imagined the other pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Games, Daroga?" He sat down on the edge of the couch, rocking back and forth in anticipation.

The Daroga's patience ran out. "Remember what I said to you."

And he hung up.

------------

Morning came slowly to the street; many rose before it and wished the sun felt well to shine a little sooner, and those who did not work Saturday lay idly in a state of ambivalence. When the sun at last crested the grove of trees to the east, and the gray sky filled with color, daylight and its people began to stir.

"Christine?"

"Coming!" She made her way to the kitchen, taking the stairs at a fast step, and turned the corner to see her father and Mrs. Kemple sitting at the table. The latter was working intently with her latest project, a necklace made from a multitude of colored beads strung end to end on fishing line. Mrs. Kemple lived down the street, and was of the firm opinion that everything had a use at some point in its existence, even if it were to serve a purpose entirely different than originally intended. The older woman beamed at her.

"Letter for you," Christine's father said, then had to reshuffle through the mail to find it. He offered it with a flourish, and added, "You remembered to change your address, right?"

Christine blushed and studied the letter curiously, wondering who she knew that would send one rather than an e-mail or a call. There was no return address; in fact, there was no address at all save for her name typed across the front. There was no envelope, either; the letter was simply a piece of paper folded in thirds and taped shut.

"Do you want to go to Farmer's Market with us?" Mrs. Kemple asked. Christine glanced up at her, putting the letter aside for the moment.

"Oh . . . sure." She looked awkwardly at her father. "Sure, I'd like that."

"Oh, good." The older woman stood with the clank of handmade bracelets, and dusted her hands as if having come to an important conclusion. "We can even get that special cake. You know, the one that looks like a pile of birthday presents?"

"At the pastry-place?" Christine asked, awkwardly.

"Yes, that's the one! I know it's not quite your birthday, but Carl and I thought it would be fun to get it anyway." She patted Mr. Daaé's shoulder.

"Thank you." Christine took her mail upstairs, laying it out on the bed. For a moment she stood silently, looking around with the beginnings of the now-familiar pang of loss. The room had been hers for almost ten years, ever since the divorce and subsequent move from California. She had grown up here, had made memories here, had whispered secrets under the covers to an old grade-school friend. It was mostly empty now, retaining nothing but the child she had once been. The adult was moving out. She could not bring her childhood with her.

On impulse, Christine stroked the head of her stuffed dolphin. It, like so many other things, would not be going along. _And of course not_, she thought, smiling at herself. _What would Seth think if I brought my pillow, my pills, and my My Little Pony collection_?

She resolutely turned away, walking back to the hall. She paused at the top of the stairs when she saw Mrs. Kemple stride quickly through the living room to answer the front door.

"Hello! I saw you through the window!"

"Good morning," a man replied, uneasily. Christine had to check a smile. "Is Charles home?"

"Charlie!" Mrs. Kemple turned to shout into the depths of the house. Christine descended to the first floor, and continued on toward the kitchen; she started when she caught a glimpse of their visitor.

_That's a surprise_. The masked man stared at her. Christine looked away, passing her father as he came to meet their neighbor. _And he's French. Somehow I was thinking New York_.

She began loading the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher, resisting the urge to linger in the other room out of curiosity. Their neighbor had hardly said two words for all the overtures her father had made; his manner stoic and unapproachable. Christine figured it might have had something to do with his injury, perhaps a complication stemming from some other, more prominent and less physical accident.

In form he did not appear crippled; it seemed to be simply his face that was damaged, although with the constant high-necked clothing and gloves such a proclamation was difficult to make. The left side of his mouth was mostly covered by the mask; what was exposed bore a thick vertical scar near the edge of the black material and which trailed away beneath it. She wondered what had happened to him, and whether it was the same thing that occasionally blackened one or the other eye.

Mrs. Kemple had suggested that their neighbor was part of some special governmental agency; Meg had suggested that he had been hired to kill James Bond. Personally, Christine was more inclined to support Meg's theory.

Her father entered the kitchen, with Mrs. Kemple close behind. The masked man was nowhere in sight.

"What was that about?"

"Apparently he and a friend were going to a concert tonight." Mr. Daaé seemed completely at ease with the sudden contact; contact which, more surprisingly, their neighbor had initiated. "His friend canceled; he wanted to know if we would like the tickets instead."

"Really?"

He produced them. "It's classical. I knew you'd be interested, but--" he glanced sideways at Mrs. Kemple.

"Oh, don't mind me!" She waved her hands as though shooing away unpleasant thoughts. "This is your little girl's last night at home! You two go have fun. I'll be all right."

"Is he sure?" Christine asked. Thoughtful gifts did not tie well to the man's apparent nature.

"Yep. Said either we take them or he was throwing them out."

"That's very odd, don't you think?" Her father only shrugged, and Christine examined the tickets. "These were expensive!"

"I suppose that's what friends do." Christine frowned at him. Although there was no question of love where the small family was concerned, she was on occasion thoroughly irritated by her father's constant easy-going manner.

Bored with the mundane tasks and tedious monotony of the adult world, Charles Daaé never lost an occasion to let life take him as it came. It had been one of the leading causes of his marriage's disaster; her mother had been more than willing to forgive the first several 'adventures', but as time wore on her patience wore out. Missing work to take their daughter out of school for the musical production of _The Secret Garden_, costing her attendance in favor of picnics or more theatrical events, never meeting deadlines. . . .

"We'll just have to have him over for dinner one time." Her father retrieved the tickets, glanced at them, and then put them into his pocket. "Or twenty."

--------

It was late in the evening when Christine remembered the letter. She had been sitting on the living room couch, waiting for her father to appear so that they could leave, and anxiously combing her fingers through the ends of her shawl. She abruptly stood and headed back to her room, then closed the door and picked up the strange paper.

_Someone must have delivered it themself_, she decided. The question as to who, and why they would bother, were more curious. Shrugging, she carefully peeled away the tape and unfolded the letter.

_When they start with apologies, it's never good_. She scanned it, then stopped and began reading closely. She read it again.

"Oh, Jesus Christ!" Christine tossed the letter onto the bed and jumped to her feet, nearly falling before she managed to catch her balance on the heels. Frantically pacing, she picked up the paper and went through it one more time. "Oh, Jesus . . . Seth. . . !"

She snatched her phone from the purse on her desk, and punched in Meg's number. Waiting with quivering anxiety, she angrily swiped at her eyes.

"_Hey, this is Meg. I'm either not here at the moment or else I'm asleep. You can leave a message_. . . ."

"Meg, pick up!" she snapped. The tone sounded, and Christine clenched her teeth. "Meg, call me back. Right now!" She hung up, and threw the phone on the bed. Breathing quickly, Christine pressed her hands to her face, pushing hard against her eyes and jaw line. She reached for Seth's letter again, ignoring the black streaks on her palms.

Excuses began formulating as to the content; perhaps it was a forgery, perhaps it was a mistake. A joke. A prank. The doings of a mean-spirited adversary, although she could not think of anyone who could be blamed. She did not have rivals, or enemies; she did not think anyone she knew particularly disliked her. She studied the letter for clues to its fallacy. _He wouldn't_. . . . _He couldn't. 'A long time coming_. . . .'

There was a knock on her door.

"Hello?" Christine choked, and put a hand over her mouth.

"Christine?" Her father poked his head in. "Are you all right?"

She waved a hand vaguely, and sat down on the edge of the bed. He took a seat beside her, smoothing the folds in the comforter, and waited for an explanation.

"I. . . ." Unable to speak, she handed him the letter. Her father read in silence, Christine unable to look at him. She wiped a hand across her face, then stood up and walked shakily out of the room.

In the hallway, the claustrophobic feeling vanished. A sense of surrealism lay heavily in its wake, making her thoughts fuzzy as she carefully found the upstairs bathroom and flicked on the light. She avoided looking in the mirror, and wrapped a trail of toilet paper around her hand. Christine blew her nose, then tore the soiled squares away and tossed them to the side, hardly caring whether they made the wastebasket. She wiped her face.

_We were moving in together. Tomorrow! How could he do this to me? Why would he?_ She scrubbed her face, hopelessly smearing the make-up. Choking back sobs, she wet her bundle of toilet paper and tried again. She tried desperately to think of what she could have done wrong, what problems had wormed into what she'd thought of as a steady relationship.

After a while, footsteps approached. Her father stood quietly for a moment, then said gravely, "I think these tickets are unlucky."

Annoyed, Christine did not reply.

He tried again. "Why don't you change into something else, and I'll go get us some ice cream."

"No." It came out more a croak than a word, and she repeated herself. "No, I don't. . . ."

"Okay." A long and uncomfortable silence descended, broken by the occasional sound of strangled breathing. Christine hung her head, sniffling and wishing for the ambiguous, maternal figure her own mother had not been.

"I just don't _understand_!" She clenched the wad of tissue. "What did I do wrong?"

"I'm sure it wasn't you," her father said quickly. She didn't say anything more, and minutes passed in slow tension. Behind Christine, her father shuffled his feet. "How about I order us a pizza, and we can--"

"No, Dad." She blew her nose again, and tossed it carelessly. She was not in any mood to spend the evening tolerating forced cheer. "Look, why don't _you_ go to the concert? Take Mrs. Kemple, or something."

"I don't want to leave you by yourself."

"I'll be fine. I just want . . . I _want _to be by myself."

"I don't--"

"Look, either you can go to the concert, or I can go shut myself in my room like when I was five. I want to be alone!" She threw the tissues into a corner, weeping.

Her father stood awkwardly for a minute more, then backed away from the bathroom. "If you're really sure that's what you want."

"It is. I'm sorry, but it is."

He came foreword to pat her shoulder, hesitantly. "Okay. . . . Okay. Your mother always liked to be by herself, too." He paused. "But if you ask me, Seth is an idiot. You're better off without him."

She waved a hand for him to leave, irritated. "Please, just--"

He left. Christine sat down on the edge of the bathtub, face in her hands.


End file.
